


In the Bleak Midwinter

by CharRem



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:17:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7519994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharRem/pseuds/CharRem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing limbs, strange tattoos, and Phryne Fisher in the moonlight. How could Jack Robinson not enjoy himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Bleak Midwinter

**Author's Note:**

> Since MFMM is a show primarily about Miss Fisher, the episodes are, in a sense, always from a Phryne-prominent perspective. We rarely (though we do on occasion) see what happens to Jack when the office door closes or glimpse him piecing together his own evidence or working out his own theories. I wanted to try to tell an entire story completely from Jack's point of view. I'm not sure how many chapters there will be, but will try to post them regularly. Enjoy! 
> 
> This is my first attempt at public fan fiction of any sort, though I've been a "lurker" for awhile. I'm a little bit nervous putting anything out into a space already so alive with quality writing and deep storytelling. Thanks to everyone who has paved the way and inspired new writers to be brave.

Jack Robinson opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. A cool morning sun was slipping in through the slats of his blind, striping his bedclothes and olive skin with gentle light. It was perhaps not surprising that Jack was a still sleeper. He was, in nearly everything, preternaturally solid and perpetually self-contained. He fell asleep flat on his back last night and woke up in the exact same position, the gray linen of his sheets pulled up to his chest, his pillow barely wrinkled from the press of his head.

Scenes from last night were already running through his mind: the sharp, cold, twinkling stars; the blaze and haze of the campfire; Collins grim expression as he turned the body over; the loud sound of the Hispano-Suiza engine amplified by the cool night air; the horror of the clenched fist, singed beard, and missing limbs; the odor of sweat, unwashed clothes, and food in a state of long decay.

Then there was Miss Fisher kneeling near the body like something from a half remembered dream. Her delicate, ridiculous costume an even greater absurdity in that bloody, vulgar scene. She had come from a fancy dress party and was clad in gossamer and fairy wings. She was Titania - a riot of sea foam green flowers and pale, bright gems now flickering in the firelight.

He climbed out of bed and headed toward the kitchen, still thinking of shimmering fabric against ivory skin and the glimmer of gold on obsidian hair.

What was that phrase? Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania?

He smiled. Well, he was no Oberon despite their quarrels. He hoped he wouldn’t end up as Bottom, but it was hard to foretell. He’d just have to wait and see. The reward, he told himself in less hopeful moments, was well worth the risk.

As he dressed he drank his coffee, mulling over last night’s murder. A farmer outside the city had noticed a prick of firelight on a distant corner of his land. Grabbing his rifle and running into the night to chase off “them squatters” he had found an empty camping tent, heavy footprints, a cup of warm coffee…and a body. Dead squatters and drifters were common enough in the outskirts of Melbourne, but dead squatters and drifters missing an opposing arm and leg were rare anywhere and this one was unique. The palm and sole of his remaining hand and foot were tattooed with strange marks, dark blue numbers raised up from the skin and rough to the touch: 71 and 43. Odd by any standard.

Jack picked up Collin’s inventoried list of the dead man’s possessions and perused it thoughtfully: some small change, a rusty knife, a roll of tobacco, a dirty handkerchief, one broken button, an open tin of Arnott's Famous Biscuits, a piece of leather cord.

A typical lot, he thought. The very things you’d expect a tramp to keep about him. Why was that? Stereotypes exist for a reason, of course, but something about that list irked him. He wasn’t sure why.

He closed his eyes for a minute and pictured the body, hard and cold. Ragged brown clothes, one muddy boot, no gun about. Just dirt and crumbs and camping gear.

There was something about the entire scenario that felt incongruous with the gruesome state of severed limbs and strange tattoos. Almost staged. A little too typical.

If he was right, this was no ordinary tramp. Or perhaps he was an ordinary tramp and it was the tramp’s death that wasn't ordinary? Or maybe both were true. He didn’t know yet. He needed to see the body in the daylight and read a coroner’s report. He needed Miss Fisher and her unconventional brain. She saw patterns where he saw only pieces and tried every connection until she found the right fit.

He sat down on a bench and slipped on his shoes, his mind drifting back to the pale face of Phryne, radiant in the moonlight, her large eyes serious and sharp, her fingers quick and nimble as she emptied pockets, examined buttons, and traced the odd raised scars on the dead man’s skin with a neatly gloved hand. He had been so caught up in watching her deft movements that he had almost forgotten the murder for a time. Unlike him, yet far more like him as of late. There was something hypnotic in the way she worked that pulled him in. She was more than just clever. She could gather a thousand details in a single glance and sift through their relevance without speaking a word. The honk of a car horn snapped Jack from his reverie and he set his coffee cup down.

He put on his coat and finished straightening his tie and looked himself over in the mirror.

_Missing limbs, strange tattoos, and Phryne Fisher in the moonlight. How could he not enjoy himself?_

He tucked the list in his coat pocket and headed for the door.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The title of this story is borrowed from Christina Rossetti's exquisite poem that later became the well-known carol.
> 
> \- Titania is the queen of the fairies in Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream." She is easily fooled by her husband, Oberon, and his henchman, Puck. This may seem an unlikely choice of character for Phryne, but her own associations with Midsummer may have played into her choice of costume.


End file.
